No Rest for the Wicked
by FloatingPizza
Summary: When certain exhibits from the Smithsonian are moved to the Museum of Natural History, Al Capone finds himself bored out of his skull. But he gets caught up in more than he bargained for when he makes an attempt to liven things up.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note**: Hey everybody. First story I'm posting here. Thanks for looking and please review if you have the time.

Of course, _Night at the Museum_ and everything affiliated (except this story's plot) does not belong to me.

* * *

_His dark eyes burned, twin stars of swirling rage. "None of ya," he shouted, raising his Tommy Gun, "are gonna scar the face of my museum any longer!" A grayscale finger slipped toward the trigger._

_Then dawn broke._

* * *

The employees who came to the Smithsonian that morning were horrifically astonished. Their beautiful museum was in wreckage. The stained glass window in the Castle was shattered. Priceless artifacts were thrown everywhere. The exhibits even looked as though they had moved, and changed expression. Oddly enough, nothing appeared to be missing, save for the New York exhibits that had arrived yesterday.

For one of the first times in history other than a national holiday, the Smithsonian Institute closed completely to the public and most of its workers. The only ones on the premises were the directors, some repairmen, and the police. The latter were having an extremely difficult time finding any evidence whatsoever. The only things they had been able to find were giant footprints that led, eerily, to the base of the Lincoln Monument. Everyone who knew about the incident was scared out of their collective wits. This was not the work of college pranksters or vandals. This wasn't deliberate. This wasn't . . . right. The media was left uninformed to prevent mass hysteria. Even so, the chief of police wanted to conduct a stakeout that night, and assigned a few of his best men to the job. But he cancelled the plan when they threatened to quit. Heck, he couldn't blame them. There was certainly no way he was going out there at night. Everyone involved decided to keep 'The Incident' under wraps.

Things took an unexpected (but very welcome) turn for the better later that day when a representative from the Museum of Natural History called and asked if the Smith happened to have any spare exhibits they would be willing to part with- particularly those of famous pilots. The director, wanting as much of this off his hands as he could, ignored the coincidence and replied that yes, they would be glad to. The representative on the phone was near ecstatic.

"Great!", he said, sounding as if he was a kid who had just gotten a Wii. "I'll have a man down in the morning."

"Hey, is there any way I can get you to borrow some more? We're feeling a bit... crowded here." No use letting more freaky things stay than necessary.

"Well, uh, that's... OK. Yeah, that's cool. In fact, I have a few more suggestions..."

The Smithsonian's director felt it might be necessary to ignore some coincidences for the greater good, and so didn't argue as he listened to the MNH guy rattle off the name of nearly every one of the 'freaky' exhibits. They'd be out of his hair, at any rate.

And so the figures of Amelia Earhart, Napoleon Bonaparte, the Tuskegee airmen, and a few others were promptly loaded into a UPS van and driven off.

Through it all, the cardboard replica of Al Capone stood in the middle of the mess, its machine gun's barrel level with a line of apparently terrified French soldiers, teeth bared, finger on the trigger, looking for all the world like it wanted to blow somebody's head off.

He was the last exhibit to be moved.


	2. Deal or no Deal

**Author's Note**: Here's chapter two, hope you like it! by the way, I use a good bit of 20's and 30's slang in this story, so if you don't understand some of the stuff Capone and Amelia say, just go to Google and search 'Jazz Age slang' and use the first link.

* * *

Al Capone stalked the halls the halls of the Museum of Natural History incessantly, his feet resting only while they turned a particularly sharp corner. He was impossibly bored, more so than he remembered having ever been before. _As screwy as the Smith was, this joint has to be worse_, he thought to himself. At least it had been open there, not dusty and... full, like this place was. The other Museum hadn't had all these people in it, at least not when he was awake. Not to mention Daley hadn't seen it fit to bring the rest of the gangsters to New York, apparently thinking Capone would try to steal the tablet again or some other bull.

He twisted around another bend, eyes on the black scuff marks his shoes left behind. When he flicked them upward again, he caught sight of a gaggle of teen-aged girls giving him more than a few admiring glances. He appreciated this, of course- and was on the verge of returning them- when he remembered what happened last time Mae decided he was being a little too friendly with someone else. The unpleasant memory completely sobered him and he focused once again on the path in front of him, face becoming distant and unreadable as he was lost to his thoughts once more.

Capone twisted around and around like this for a time, still trying to decide whether his wife or a few of the boys would last longer in a fight. It was a tough question- would his gang be armed? Would that matter? What if-

He froze for a spilt-second, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Not good. By the next heartbeat, he had whipped out his Tommy gun, placed a finger on the trigger, and leveled the sights with his stalker's forehead.

A stalker who turned out to be one of the girls from earlier, her shallow blue eyes staring in terror at the barrel. Capone dropped it instantly, disgusted with himself. If this qualified as enemy material, his life had truly become pathetic.

He expected the bird to run off the minute his gun was dropped, but unfortunately, he was wrong. She started to giggle hysterically, half fear and half relief. "Whoa! Dude, you totally had me going there for a sec. Cool gun."

The gangster just rolled his eyes and walked off.

"Hey! Hey! Mr. Mafia-Guy! Wait up! I wasn't done talking to you!" She didn't know his name. Any minuscule chance that she might have had with him vaporized.

For a while she just trotted along behind him, as far away from the gun as she could get. "Uh, you mind if I ask a question? How did you get all that black-and-white make-up on?"

He sighed aggrievedly. "It didn't take any time, because that's not paint, it's my skin."

"Hunh? No it isn't, silly." She giggled again. "Anyway, one of my friends, Hilary, she, like, saw you when you walked by us, and she kinda thought you were pretty cute, so she, like, sent me to get your number. Personally, I don't know why, if I think some guy's cute, I just walk up to him and tell him..."

Damn. This was worse than listening to radio soaps. He abruptly turned into the next room, Early American History, ducking through the crowd of people and slipping away before the harpy got a chance to follow him.

As soon as he reached the next semi-open area, he turned around and started walking backwards, ready to fire or sprint away. You could never be too careful.

As is to be expected, he accidentally backed into someone, causing the other person to stumble and emit a loud "Oof!" Capone turned, intending to apologize and help whoever it was up- he was a gentleman, after all- until he caught sight of the man's face.

"You!" the little man squeaked.

"YOU!" Capone shouted, recognizing the face.

It belonged to Elmer Irey.

* * *

"So, which flight was your favorite?"

"Favorite? Mr. Daley, I shall have you know, I have no favorites. Each flight is just as wonderful as the next."

Larry Daley and Amelia Earheart were standing in front of a backdrop of open sky, part of the Flight exhibit set up in her honor.

He took a long drink out of his coffee cup and chuckled. "Well then, which one was hardest?"

Amelia opened her mouth to reply, but was cut off by a loud popping sound, followed by shrieks from the same direction. They looked at each other, both thinking the same thing.

Somebody must have pissed off Capone.

Suddenly, a tiny Corvette sped out from under the feet of the running crowd, a tiny cowboy at its wheel.

"That nutty black and white Italian's chasing some shrimp from Unsung Heroes, firin' that gun a' his all over the place!" Jedidiah yelled. "What'd you do, put a stand up of Kevin Costner in there?"

Larry didn't have time to worry about how Jed knew about _The Untouchables_. He slammed his cup of coffee down and told Amelia, "Don't follow me, get the people out." He ran off in the opposite direction before she could reply.

The pilot wanted to follow him terribly, but knew he was right. "Everyone! FOLKS!" She told the panicked crowd in her authoritative voice, "Please come this way, toward the door, and don't worry about the cat with the gun, he isn't going to hurt anyone." _With the exception of that fella who managed to get him in a lather, that is. _

* * *

"GET BACK HERE! GET BACK HERE, YOU LITTLE SNITCH!" Capone yelled, firing a round of bullets toward Irey, who squealed and tried to run faster, unaware that the gangster wasn't even firing at him. No, Al wanted the rat to get good and scared before he finally finished the man off. He didn't think it would take very long, considering how round the man was. He could barley stay in front of Capone, despite the lead he had had. Heck, maybe he'd have a heart attack during the chase. That wouldn't be bad either.

He fired again, toward the ceiling, and chuckled grimly as the accountant began to falter. Wouldn't be long now... Yes! He'd tripped! Capone finished off the short distance between them fluidly, reminding himself never to get fat.

He placed a foot on Irey's chest and leered down at him like a python would the prey in its coils.

"How ya feelin', snitch?" He hissed, pressing his foot down harder as he said the last word. "A little scared? A little trapped?"

He leaned down further. "I know what it's like, being trapped. I was trapped in a jail cell for half my life. A few feet square, them walls closin' in, your heart fluttering, 'cause ya know, ya just _know,_" He paused.

"You're not gettin' out alive."

Irey started to hyperventilate, yet still tried to get out an excuse. "C-ca-pone, Mi-mister C-capone, it w-was N-ne-ness-"

"QUIET!" he shouted, violently ripping off his overcoat and fixing the barrel of the gun between the man's thin eyebrows. "I had enough of the law a century ago. Now that I'm back, I'm certainly not putting up with you or the rest for one more instant." He cocked his gun.

"HEY!"

Capone jerked his head toward the sound, leaving Irey to make the most of the moment. He rolled out from under the mobster's foot and scuttled behind Larry, gasping 'thank you' under his breath repeatedly.

Capone straightened up and walked ominously toward them, his eyes unblinking. He tossed his head and growled, "Move."

The night guard shook his head. "No, no, I'm not. Sorry."

Black eyes narrowed. "And why not? I thought you valued your major circulatory organs." A cold metal barrel shoved painfully into his chest.

He sucked in a breath. "And I thought you valued being able to come to life every night."

"Is that a threat?"

"Maybe. But I'm not going to allow you to threaten our guests with_ that_." He tapped the gun.

"I wasn't threatening your 'guests', I was threatening _that." _Irey shivered slightly as the man spat out the last word. Capone noticed and sauntered closer.

"Yeah, snitch, I'm talkin' about you. The big guy's little number cruncher, the one who sent me to jail for damned _tax evasion._" The last two words were dripping with anger and embarrassment. He looked up at Larry. "Just let me have Palooka here, we'll have a little talk, and me and Thompson won't bother you or the people again. _Capice?" _

Larry just shook his head. "I can't let you do that."

Capone narrowed his eyes further but backed off. The implicated threat earlier had made an impression. He twisted his head downward and glared terribly at Irey, hissing a curse under his breath in Italian, then turned away and began to stalk off. _The only half-interesting thing that happens in a month and I don't get to finish it. _

Suddenly, and idea came to him. A brilliant, wonderful idea. He spun 180 on his heel.

"Ya know what, Daley? A great idea just came to me. You don't want me whackin' Irey here in front of your guests, and I don't want to spend one more second havin' to pace around this joint like some sorta caged animal. What if we made a little deal?"

Larry was immediately wary, but knew he should at least here the man out. "What kind of deal, exactly?"

Capone grinned, trying to make his smile as sincere and unthreatening as he could. "I forget the little snitch here exists, and you let me out for the night. How's that sound?"

Larry just stared. "What?"

The mobster shrugged. "No big deal. Just lemme see the city for a while, say, five hours. Tomorrow night. Look, I'll even leave the gun here. And the hat. And if you can find me some street clothes, I'll even trade in the suit for them." He arched his eyebrows, giving his face a pleading expression. "Look. Honestly. I'm dyin' here."

The night guard still wasn't sure what he was hearing. "So... you want to go out, in New York city, at night, alone."

He snorted. "You make that sound like a bad thing. I grew up here, night guard. 20 years. Couldn't have changed much since the 1900's. People certainly didn't get any more dangerous."

Larry blinked at him. "You're monochromatic."

"I'll stay in the shadows. See a movie. Cruise the alleys. Little Italy. C'mon. One night," he held up a finger, "and little Ernie there gets off my vendetta."

Larry didn't fail to notice "little Ernie" had apparently ran off sometime during his and Capone's conversation. He couldn't blame the guy. Daley sighed, looking away for a moment. This was stupid and it was risky, but it was stupider and riskier to make this guy any angrier. People like Capone wouldn't forgive. He looked up again. The man stood there hands in his pockets, eyebrows raised, a picture of innocence, save for the gun. Larry put a hand to his face. "You know what, OK. We'll try this."

"Ya serious?"

Larry nodded. "Pretty darn."

Capone's face broke into a grin, fully sincere this time. It changed his whole face, his eyes getting brighter and his brows relaxing.

"Ha! Ducky! You're just darb!" He then abruptly clasped his hands together and his face lost the momentary brightness. "Now. Tomorrow sometime, you're gonna get me some of whatever kinds of clothes people wear now, right?"

He nodded, still trying to figure out what the guy had just called him. He really should buy a slang dictionary sometime.

"Good, good. This kills me to say it, but I'll probably need a map too, if only 'cause the streets might have been renamed. Doable?"

"Yeah, yeah sure. Jeans and a map. Got it."

Capone grinned again and slapped him on the arm. "It's a go, then." Larry sighed again as he watched the ecstatic Italian leave. Capone even waved and nodded at a group of civil war mannequins as he passed, more recognition than he had ever given to another exhibit before, save Irey. The Confederates watched him until he disappeared around a bend, then turned back to Larry with a raised-eyebrows look, apparent even with their lack of said eyebrows. The guard just shrugged back.

He hoped he hadn't started something he couldn't finish.


	3. Of Hoodies and Zippers

**Author's Note: **It's been forever, right? I am so sorry I kept you guys in anticipation this long- and this really isn't much of an update. I didn't have this story planned out as well as I should have, but I've got it now. Please enjoy!

* * *

_SNAP._

The raw sound, produced by the unhooking joints of Al Capone's submachine gun, ricocheted throughout the Hall of Raptors. He guessed it was some time around 7:30- he had just 'woken up'- and he was already crazy anxious to get going. Daley had agreed to drive him to the nearest movie theater at 11.

He had three and a half more monotonous hours, and was habitually checking and rechecking his gun to pass the time.

"Spring's too tight. Needs oil." he murmured to himself, although these two statements were a gross overstatement, given that he had just oiled the things two nights ago.

With a grunt, he disconnected the barrel and peered down it with one eye. "Nice."

He laid the cool metal onto the table and yanked his handkerchief out of his front pocket, caring more for his Tommy than the white linen. He had just began to wipe down the surface when his work was interrupted.

"Capone di signore!" a voice called from above him. Capone pulled his eyebrows together in unsure recognition and twisted his head upward, surprised to find himself staring at a bronze statue.

"La guardia di notte ha bisogno di lei sul davanti." it rattled off in rapid Italian. _The night guard needs you up front._

"Ah, sicuro, sicuro," Capone began vaguely, trying to remember the right words and verb use. "Dirlo avròragione lì." _Tell him I'll be right there._

The statue- Columbus, he thought- seemed satisfied with his answer and started to walk back toward the front desk, calling over its shoulder, "Fare attenzione per i criminali stasera."

The gangster stared after him openmouthed, wondering if he had heard the thing right. After a bit he shut his jaws and uttered a faint _tch, _accompanied by a scowl.

__

Watch out for the criminals tonight.

He turned back to his gun and irritably began to reassemble it, wondering if bullets dented metal.

* * *

_BANG!_

The tree's leaves shivered violently as the rock salt patterned them with holes.

__

BANG!

And more holes.

"Rick, I think this psycho is going to kill us."

"Nah, man, he's just firin' off some rock salt. That can't hurt us."

__

BANG!

"... somehow I doubt that."

Officers Jacob Dawson and Richard Gutierrez were the two newest policemen in their precinct, fresh out of the academy. As a result, they were usually given the assignments the senior officers despised, such as keeping nutty old Mr. Elrod from disturbing the peace, a chore that had to be preformed once a week at the very least.

__

BANG!

"Mr. Elrod! You really need to stop doing that, sir!" Rick shouted.

The infamous Mr. Elrod stood on his back porch, peering at his apple tree through his wire-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a bright orange bath robe over his t-shirt and jeans, his feet protected by furry brown house shoes.

"Ha! Gimme one good reason why, ya greenhorns! I've run off lawdogs half your size again!" He pumped his gun using one hands and peppered the (dead) fruit tree once more, laughing maniacally.

Jake took a deep breath and shouted, "Sir, if you don't stop right now, we're-"

"Going to be forced to use drastic measures. You two really _are_ newbies, ain't ya? Not as fun scaring a couple kids as it is messing with the chief. But I'll live with it."

_BANG!_

"Alright, I take back my earlier statement." Rick muttered angrily, shaking his head to rid it of whatever had just fallen onto it.

Jake sighed and looked at his partner. "Well, what do we do now?"

"I dunno. Uncle Sam didn't teach us anything about how to deal with an insane old hillbilly."

_BANG!_

"I HEARD THAT."

"Well, what about Señor Zapata?"

"Can it."

_Click._

The two perked up at the sound, each twisting around the tree to see what had caused it. They were rewarded with a vision of Mr. Elrod cursing at an empty can of ammunition.

"Sweet success." Jake breathed. He grabbed Rick's arm and made an attempt to pull him up. "C'mon, let's split while he's busy!"

"Hey, man, no, we gotta go up there and arrest that guy!"

"No, we need to get away while we can!" he hissed between clenched teeth.

"Nah, Jake-"

Rick was interrupted by a particularly malign cackle, of the sort that would make crows shiver. Mr. Elrod had managed to fish a shell out of his robe's pocket , and was loading it into the gun as quickly as his tubby fingers would allow.

"-I think your plan is great!" he yelled, sprinting toward the safety of the police car parked next to the curb. He threw himself across the slick hood, slipping across and falling rather unceremoniously onto the road. He grunted and threw open the door, squirming in alongside Jake. The car's fresh black tires spun nosily across the pavement as it sped away, trailing twin black lines.

Rick kept a wary lookout behind them for the better part of a mile, eventually turned around with a relived sigh. "I think we lost him."

"Don't say that." Jake replied tightly. "They say that in the horror movies and then the next second a head pops up in front of them."

The Latino snapped his fingers. "That's it."

"What? A disembodied head?"

"A movie. We've had a terrifying experience, and try should calm ourselves as best we know how to be ready for work tomorrow. I say with a great brawling saga of the 1930's."

"You want to see _Public Enemies._ Again."

"It's worth seeing twice! Or thrice. The ambiance in the theater improves the dark and violent mood."

"Whatever. It's playing at 11, right?"

* * *

"This is a shoe?"

"Yeah. A Nike sneaker. One of the most famous brands."

"It looks like something a cake-eater would wear."

"Well, it isn't, unless half of the world is... whatever you just said. What did you say?"

Capone ignored Larry and dropped the tennis shoe, which he had been holding between two fingers as one would a wriggling worm, onto a table that had his 'street clothes' on rough display.

"Half the people that come in here have on those jean-whatevers, so I guess they're commonplace now." He shook his head and began to walk the length of the table. "But why society would give up fedoras and suits for these things, I'll never know."

He paused before the charcoal Chicago University hoodie at the end of the line up, staring at it for some long moments before picking it up and avidly examining the zipper. Larry and Nick exchanged a glance.

After a while, Capone managed to hook the edges together and fasten the jacket. "So these screwy things became popular after all... hunh. It's ah, a zip fastener, right?"

"... more or less."

"Right." He tossed the jacket down nonchalantly and threaded his fingers together, popping his knuckles. "Well, we mentioned movies last night during our 'discussion'. What's playin'?" His question was met with uneasy silence. He gave Larry a look. "What? Don't tell me you're that socially inept."

"No, no, Capone, it's just that... well... movies have changed some-"

"Yeah, whatever. New faces, new games, sound, color- I got it. Now answer my question."

Larry rubbed a hand across his face. "Fine. There's _Up, Public Enemies, Transformers-"_

"Those names mean nothing to me."

"- and_ G.I. Joe._ You'd probably like the second one. It's about John Dillinger."

"Yet another name that means nothing to me. You're on a roll tonight."

The night guard sighed irritably. "He was a big-time bank robber. 1930's. Crime. Guns. Explosions. Your thing."

Capone grinned. "I haven't seen a good explosion in months. Sounds good. And about that map?"

_"_Uh, yeah, that thing." Larry removed a crinkled pamphlet from his pocket, a colorful printout folded brochure-style.

"This is a-" he began, only to be abruptly cut off when Capone snatched the thing from his hand and unfolded it with a flick of his wrist. He stared at it for a while, his face quite unreadable save for the occasional confused squint. After a while he handed it back to Larry- still unfolded- and crossed his arms, closing his eyes in concentration.

"So you're gonna follow West 77 past Broadway until ya hit Riverside, then turn left and take it to West 61, then follow that one to your movie theater. Am I right?"

Larry gaped at him. "Well, yeah, whoa- how did you know that?" _All of those roads couldn't have been here a hundred years ago..._

"Ya outlined your route in some very bright yellow. I'm not color-blind, as contrary to my skin pigmentation and your apparent belief, and I have a very good memory for maps."

"Couldn't have guessed." The night guard muttered under his breath, staring unhappily at the map.

Capone opened his eyes and pitched his eyebrows upward. "What was that?"

"Nothing, nothing, nothing. It's getting late. Ready to go?"

The gangster gave him what was probably the most incredulous look he had ever received. "Heck yes!"

He snatched up the gray hoodie and preceded to stare at it for a full ten seconds.

".... how does one put this on?"


	4. Idiotic Rooster

"Al, Come on! I though you were ready to go!" Larry shouted towards the Men's restroom, checking his watch. "It's 10:45, that movie of yours if going to start soon!"

"I would be, if these damn pants would stay on me! Did ya intentionally get a size too big?!"

"No, that's how people your age wear them now. They're supposed to stay low."

"Oh, my age? What exactly do you take that to be? I'm believe it was somewhere around 110, by my last count!"

"You know what I mean!"

"Oh, _fine_. I'm coming."

Seconds later, the door of the bathroom flew open, slamming angrily against the wall and most likely denting it. Capone stalked out with his face set in a dangerous scowl, the fingers of his left hand grasping the sagging edge of his Levi's with enough force to turn his knuckles white(er). Even the small, dull amount of color on the clothes was enough to severely highlight the fact that he was monochromatic.

The absolute absurdity of the situation, coupled by Capone's severely irritated expression, accounted to one of the most ridiculous things Larry had ever seen. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing, shaking from the effort.

However, he needn't have worried; other circumstances were about to divert the gangster's attention.

"Well, Ivan, regarder qui le c'est, our favorite criminal."

"Da, Mr. Capone! It has been too long!"

Capone stopped dead. "Oh, bushwa..." he hissed, not turning around.

"Oui, he iz right! After all, we never really did rezolve that little spat we had a few nightz ago."

"Well, you're certainly not one to be talkin' about little, Frenchie."

Behind him, Napoleon scoffed and balled his fists, his face turning bright red. "You have a foolish mouth, American, as all of you do! Woe unto the day that you brought the wrath of Napoleon Bonaparte upon your ugly head!"

That made Capone turn around. "Oh, so now ya sink to insultin' me _and_ my country!" he spat, hand still clutching the edge of his jeans.

"That I am! What iz it that are making of it, hmm?"

The gangster crossed the room in three long, angry strides, stopping only inches in front of Napoleon. He bowed his head in order to glare down at the shorter Frenchman.

"Well, what do you make of it, exactly?"

Napoleon opened and closed his mouth a few times, blinking rapidly and trying to ignore the blanket of sweat accumulating upon his forehead. Oh, how he hated heredity. "You know perfectly well, coq insensé!"

Larry saw a movement in the corner of his eye and noticed that Ivan the Terrible was slowly edging away. "Napoleon, we don't need-"

"Silence, you Russian idiot! I can take care of myself!"

"Oh yeah? Ya couldn't at the Smith, that's for sure!"

"HEY!"

All three rouges turned to look at Larry at once, ceasing their bickering.

"Will you guys _please _shut up? Like, _now_?"

"Why?" Napoleon and Capone said at the same time, momentarily turning to glare at each other when they realized this.

Larry just covered his eyes and swept an arm around.

Capone followed the movement with his eyes, scanning the room.

Oh. That's why.

He had forgotten that he was in a public museum _filled with random people_, a large crowd of whom had gathered around he and Napoleon. A number of teenagers were in the process of snapping pictures and taking notes, their younger compatriots shouting a reprise of "Fight! Fight!" until being dragged away by their mothers.

Capone felt his face growing considerably warm and turned away, lowering his head and instinctively grasping for the brim of a hat that wasn't there. "Daley. Screw. Now." He hissed in just over a whisper.

Larry lifted his face from his right palm and stared at him. "What? What did you just say?"

Capone glance-glared back at him over a hunched shoulder, mentally cursing whatever idiot had decided the English language needed to reinvent itself every 20 years. He didn't even _want_ to know what that word meant now. "It means leave."

Larry gave a him a dubious look, apparently unconcerned about the non-dispersing mass of gawkers behind him. Unlike Al.

"Leave _quickly_." he added from between clenched teeth, roughly jerking his head in the general direction of the exit.

At last Larry sighed and relented, starting to walk to the exit and shaking his head the entire time. "Whatever you say."　

He managed to swerve back quickly enough to miss the slamming door.

* * *

_"Arrive early to watch Firstlook, and view exclusive previews and specials before your feature film begins..."_

"Why do you always insist on us getting here early and watching this stupid infomercial cluster?"

Rick sighed irritably through a mouthful of popcorn. "Because it shows 'exclusive previews and specials.'" he said in a mimic of the high-pitched voice. "Didn't you hear the announcer chick say that?"

Jake gave him an equally irritable look. "We have come to this theater enough to watch the entire thing three times over. We know what's on it, and I for one get tired of-"

"Look! Look! It's the _Sherlock Holmes_ trailer! Shut up!"

Jake just sighed and leaned his head back, mentally cursing the theater's inability to upgrade their chairs. One got used to being told to shut up after being around Rick for long enough.

_"I have a request... there's someone I want to see..."_

"Sherlock Hooolmes." Rick whispered in sync with Blackwood's booming voice, letting out a relatively insane cackle afterwards and crunching more popcorn.

"You had better be glad we're the only people in here, nutcase."

"Someone hasn't shut up yet."

"Gimme the popcorn and I will."

"Deal."

* * *

The air.

That was the first thing Capone had noticed when he walked- well, stalked would be a better word- out of the museum.

It was cool, it was fresh- as fresh as city air could get, anyway- and it was _moving_. There was a breeze. A faint gust. The type of thing you feel everyday but completely take for granted. And it was wonderful, after being stuck in that miserable stuffy building for a month.

So he stood there on the steps of the Museum of Natural History, tilted his head back to let the wind caress it, forgot his earlier embarrassment, smiled just a little, and felt like everything was right.

Unfortunately, one of the side effects of being Al Capone was the fact that he was always, somewhere in the back of his mind, aware of his public image (despite the fact that he no longer had one). It would not do for him to be seen looking like an idiot staring at the sky, and so he cut his jubilations short with a slight cough and a neck rub.

He glanced around, looking for Daley, and saw him standing at the curb of the busy street beside a very odd-looking vehicle, one slick and roofless. He frowned at the thing, then looked up at the road in curiosity.

The cars shooting past _all_ looked weird, coming in more models, sizes, and ridiculously gaudy colors than he would have ever though possible. But then, it had been just a few years since he had last seen one, back when the very invention was still considered new.

Capone shook his head irritably and began to descend the concrete staircase, not wanting to dwell on the thought. He just hoped the things rode better now than they had back when.

* * *

As Larry's car gunned its engine, a certain group of note-taking teenagers had put away their notes and were leaving the museum. The three were laughing merrily and giving each other solid high-fives.

"Dude, we are _so _going to make the paper with that article!" one boy chuckled.

"I know! Napoleon Bonaparte and Al Capone almost get in a fistfight and we're there to catch it! I got this awesome pic of them screaming at each other like they were going to bite off each other's heads!" a bespectacled girl agreed.

"Maybe we'll get a front-page headline!" he screeched joyfully.

"Well, we can't get paid or published until we get the thing written. I'll take care of it. And, Rob, that is the most ridiculous idea I've ever heard of. An almost-fight at some dusty little hole-in-the-wall barely merits an article. We'll be lucky if the paper picks this up as some sort of lame attention-grabber for an 'educational pursuit.'" their pessimistic friend muttered.

"Geez, Bella, chill. We got on the newspaper to have fun, remember?"

"Sure, Abbie Beth. Suuure. And my name's Arabella."

The guy, Rob, walked in between them and propped his elbows up and their shoulders, not an easy feat considering he was about two inches shorter than the girls. "Easy, easy, Bella. You remember your anger management courses."

Arabella rolled her eyes. "That never happened, Rob. And it's pointless to discuss this. Let's just get an article turned in so we can get some money and I can put it away in my Ferrari fund."

And so out walked a piece of writing that could make or break the Museum of Natural History and the fates of all its occupants.

* * *

**Author's Note:**I typed the bit about Capone outside while listening to 'Nemo' by Nightwish on repeat... awesome song, go check it out on Youtube or lala. I really think that band takes inspiration form Jules Verne. If anyone cares, Napoleon called Capone an idiotic rooster, hence the title's chapter. And, ooh, I got ya on the last line, didn't I? You don't have to worry about more OC's cluttering up the story, though. The three are not gonna show up any more, at the present moment. Hope you liked, enjoyed, etcetera!


	5. Theatrics

**EDIT Note 3/28/12: **I've been meaning for a while to update some parts of NRftW, and this is the first. This chapter is likely the one with the heaviest edits (and the most bonus scenes), given how displeased I was with it when it was first published. That's been remedied now :)

* * *

Gray fingers fell down the windowpane, friction between the glass and fingertips slowing their descent. They came to rest on the sleek black plastic molding underneath the glass, then arched slightly as Capone began absentmindedly tapping his fingernails against the material. His mind was somewhere else, somewhere out in that vast behemoth of a city that had changed so much and yet so little.

True, the vehicles looked like something out of a Harry Houdini talkie and none of the dolls were wearing dresses, but there were still night owls walking down the sidewalks, teenagers on bicycles, albeit with hairstyles that would have made his mother shriek, street lights casting their yellow gaze upon the gum-marked concrete. Some things didn't change, but others practically reversed themselves. Like this car. But this car rocked. He wanted to steal this car.

He afforded Daley a sidelong glance, his curiosity perked. "Hey, when did the women start burning their skirts?" he asked, careful to use what he considered a constant term.

Larry glanced at him in surprise, then quickly brought his eyes back to the road. He had been expecting a long, silent hearse-esque drive. "Well, uh, I think it was sometime in the seventies, 1970's," he said, "Or sixties. I'm not really familiar that part of history. We don't have any exhibits from that time frame."

Capone nodded faintly, turning back to the window. The warm brick buildings flashed by like fading memories.

The mention of women and skirts reminded Larry of a question he wanted to ask. "You... were married, weren't you?" he ventured abruptly,

The look that appeared on Capone's face was less po'ed but significantly more suspicious than he had expected. "Still am." he growled tensely. "Why?"

Larry shrugged. "Just curious. You asked a question, I figured I could."

Capone continued to stare at him unnerving, obviously aware something was up. Eventually though, he twisted his head away with a muttered word that sounded suspiciously like an Italian insult. Larry decided he tended to poke his nose into far more matters than he should.

A silence fell over the vehicle, as to be expected. It lasted until the they reached the theater, which luckily was only a few blocks away at this point. The red Corvette purred to a stop in front of a brightly lit building teeming with people.

"What's up with the lights..." Capone muttered under his breath, already opening the door. Or attempting to.

"It's neon." Larry answered, then gestured toward the door handle. "And you pull that handle inward, don't push it."

He realized post-advice that he might have insulted Capone by implying he couldn't open a car door, and this revelation was quickly confirmed by an irritated over-the-shoulder glare. "Thank you." Capone said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Larry chose to ignore his blunder and attempted to placate Capone with that most convincing of gifts: green. "Hey, hold on a sec."

He began to dig through a front pocket, Capone watching him with a semi-curious, semi-scowling (mostly scowling) expression. Moments later he triumphantly pulled out a surprisingly crisp-looking ten-dollar bill, then handed it to Capone. "That should get you in easy, with some left over. You can get popcorn or something."

Capone's black eyes darted to the money, then Larry's face, then the bill again. "Popcorn." he said uncertainly. Larry nodded, taking the statement as some sort of question.

"Do you make your popcorn from solid gold now?"

Larry frowned. "What?" he said, then looked at the money to make sure it wasn't a $100. It wasn't.

Capone had apparently overcome his gilded popcorn confusion, as he quickly plucked the bill from Larry's hand the minute it showed signs of retreating. "It's nothin'. Corn prices must be up." He flipped up the charcoal Chicago U's hood and started off.

"Wha...?" Larry began yet again, but the lithe figure of Capone had already vanished into the seething mass of people.

* * *

Capone stepped out of the Corvette and observed the crowd, not bothering to give Daley a send-off. By the time the night guard had rounded the block, though, Capone was getting a little antsy. This was a crowded theater, with throngs of people outside savoring the summer breeze and waiting for the 11 o'clock show to start. And now they were all staring at Capone, because he had ridden up in a highly conspicuous bright red luxury car with an uncommonly loud engine.

He had no problem with an excuse for his coloring- he and Daley had agreed earlier that of need be he'd just say he worked at the NATM, which he did, in a manner of speaking. It was a good cover and semi-halfway-legit, which in Capone's mind was the best kind of legit to be.

At any rate, most of the people were too concentrated upon their friends or their little portable box-things- _cell phones, _Capone reminded himself- to keep their curiosity in him very long. He reflected upon how self-absorbed people were. It was one of the foundations that made his business run.

His contemplation broke off when a suspiciously loud noise _clang_ed in the alleyway to his right.

Capone's head swiveled instantly, just in time to pick up a lanky teenager beating a hasty retreat through some kind of side door. He could only guess as to what the kid was running from, but he kept watching, and no one followed. _Must have had a prior engagement. _

There was a dull _thunk _as the door caught on some providential piece of refuse in the alleyway, preventing it from shutting. Capone narrowed his eyes and considered the situation.

It would make for a most wonderful way to watch his movie free of charge.

He stared at the door, pondering not so much the moral aspect of the situation as to how much it would benefit Alphonse Gabriel Capone to take the risk of breaking this law, which was usually how he thought anyway. He reached into his pocket and clutched the twenty, fingers tracing its edges.

Decided, he smirked and sauntered into the movie theater.

* * *

Jake had been watching the guy for a good two minutes.

_Public Enemies _flickered in subdued colors at the edge of his vision, but like most normal people he wasn't interested in watching a movie he had seen four times. Instead, he kept his eyes on some guy who had just slipped into the theater, illegally, through a side door.

_Those idiots who run this place should know better, _he thought. _We're not exactly on Lafayette Street here._

He was more irritated with the stupidity of the theater owners and situation (his legs were getting cramped) than with the movie-hopping dude. Unlike Rick and his devotion to the motion-picture industry, he did not find pleasure in sacrificing half of his paycheck to see pixels flash across screens, and thereby didn't really care all that much if some random guy off the street decided to pop in and take a peek. Yeah, he was a cop and all that, but that was during work hours. He had no intention of doing anything unnecessary if it could possibly be avoided. Like watching this stupid movie. Sleeping would be a better use of his time.

"Hey. Jake. Rebel Base to Jake. Come in." Fingers snapped rapidly in front of his eyes.

He sighed and looked back to the screen. Sure enough, _Public Enemies _had reached Rick's least favorite scene, so now he would be most likely bombarded by critical complaints and then overenthusiastic declarations of how awesome the film was despite said shortcomings.

But no. "Whatcha lookin' at?" Rick asked, trying to peer into the darkened aisle Jake had been staring at.

"Nothin'." Jake muttered unconvincingly, keeping his eyes locked onto the movie.

This only served to make Rick more curious, and as a result he stood up and looked over.

"Sit down!" Jake hissed, grabbing his arm and pulling.

"Then tell me what you're lookin' at!" Rick replied, still standing.

"All right!"

He grinned, cheshire-like, and sat. "Speak, Fido."

Jake rolled his eyes and was sorely tempted to smack him. "Just for that, I'm waiting until the movie's over." he said. Anticipating Rick's inevitable "C'mon, man!", he pretended to suddenly become interested in the movie. "Hey, wasn't that a Dutch angle?"

The mention of something film-related got Rick's mind off of his curiosity immediately, and he started to babble away. Jake ignored him and thanked heaven for his friend's short attention span, all the while eyeing the newcomer. ADD or not, Rick had a good memory, and there would be Hell to pay when he found out someone had cheated his favorite movie theater out of ten bucks.

* * *

Back on the screen, _Public Enemies _rolled away, John Dillinger and the rest of his gang drawing closer and closer to their tragic ends, then meeting them. Parting words appeared in white, and the credits rolled. It was over.

* * *

Capone slipped out of the side door quietly, more than a little shaken by what he had just seen.

It wasn't really the blood or the violence- he was used to that, even if he didn't particularly like it- it was the stunning degree of realism it was portrayed with in a casual film.

They had warned him, told him how fantastic movies had become, and he had all but scoffed at them. The effects couldn't have gotten that much better... but they had.

He had honestly believed those actors were dead for a few seconds, then with the explosions, the gunfire, so loud, so _real_, all in color, stunning color.

He shivered, honestly relived no one was playing _him_ in there. At least most of the actors didn't look anything like the people he remembered. He had actually sniggered a bit when he saw the false Nitti's mustache.

_Wait 'til I tell him..._

_Oh wait. I can't. He's dead. _I'm _dead._

The thought chilled him, deeply, and he used every ounce of his considerable mental will to shove the idea out of his head, but it stuck like thick peanut butter. Capone shook his head, violently, as if the motion could dislodge the idea.

It didn't work.

"Christ, where's a cigar when I need one... Well, that's what ya get for watching somethin' you're not supposed to see." he muttered to himself, rubbing at his irritated eyes. Eventually he gave up trying to soothe them and shoved his hands into his pockets, starting down the alleyway and hoping to outpace his depressing thoughts. And it might have worked, too. Except for the fact that Rick had finally managed to needle the truth out of Jake.

Capone heard the theater door behind him open with a loud fwoosh of air and a loud cry of "Hey!"

He spun around instantly, harshly, fixing the people that had followed him out with a glare of steel and ignoring his inner emotion of _oh shiz oh shiz oh shiz oh shiz._ There were two of them, both men, somewhere in their early twenties, a shorter Hispanic one and a lanky blond guy with sleepy looking eyes. They didn't look like anybody extraordinary, but that didn't mean anything. People used to say that about him.

The little one had this angry look on his face, and it wasn't going away. He cocked his head some to the side once he noticed he had garnered Capone's attention. "You enjoy watching that movie you didn't pay for?"

_Oh, yes, Al, you certainly still have that criminal touch!_

In another time he might have decided to play it safe and run, a time he called _real life_, but he was sick of the boredom, sick of inactivity, sick of dull nights spent pacing in the shadows of this alien future. He hadn't had so much as a taste of adrenaline in months and being who he was he was not about to pass up this opportunity.

Capone smiled lazily, falsely warming his features and keeping his posture relaxed. "Yeah, I did, actually. Really great effects they had there, with the, ah, violence. Depp's a swell actor." he said cheerfully, feeling relived he had paid attention to the credits. He continued to rattle off as many things about the movie as he could, hoping to placate his adversary until the opportune moment arrived for some knuckle-busting. _Or runnin'. Two against one. _the overactive voice in his head reminded him.

Rick was not impressed. He thought Capone was trying to smooth-talk his way out of the situation, which he was, which irritated him to a great extent, even though he would have done the exact same thing had he been in Capone's position.

So therefore, the vulgar little word that he shouted at Capone was highly deserved, in his eyes.

Unfortunately for him, Capone did not agree.

* * *

**Author's Note: **That "are you married?" deal is to be explored further, I didn't just throw it in there as a filler. (This does not mean there is any romance looming on the horizon. Sorry, no. The thing won't even really directly involve marriage, in fact.)  
Jake totally disappears in the last paragraph. Forgive me.  
On a random note, Capone's reference to "Harry Houdini talkies" refers to the many Sci-fi films the magician made in the late 10's and early 20's. Also, a ten-dollar bill in his time would be worth about $127, adjusted for inflation. I do believe the golden popcorn statement was appropriate!


	6. Technically Illegal

"Well, what is it? I was hoping to get in some more walking before dawn, Mr. Daley."

"It's just... I dunno how to put this... doesn't he seem a little... off, to you?"

"You mean about his temper? Yes, very much so. He needs therapy."

"Well, yeah no, you're right, but that's... not what I meant."

"Then please, do spit it out, as they say, I'm beginning to get deja vu."

"He acts like he's real."

"What do you mean?"

"Capone thinks like he's real. A real person. I mean, it's not that the rest of the guys aren't people, I'm just saying. They know they're wax or plastic or cardboard, and they've come to grips with that. Al hasn't, I don't think."

"Have you asked him explicitly?"

"... no."

"And why not? He holds the answer to your question, not I."

"It's just... weird. It's, like, a personal thing to you guys, isn't it?"

"I wouldn't know, Larry, I'm the only exhibit that _is _a real person. Technically."

"That's... not what I asked you."

"Well, I can't answer what you asked me. It's not my place to say. Oh, and you should get back up front, I think Rexy was having some joint pain. You know what that does to his temper. "

"...fine."

* * *

Richard Gutierrez discovered a truth of the universe that night: An unexpected sock on the jaw and the promise of more can make you move like nobody's business.

You see, despite his anger and bravado, Rick was not one to actually _fight _over anything, vastly preferring to bad-mouth and screech at his enemies like an angered cat. He might have been more of a fighter, had not the genetic pool graced him with the height and physical statue of your typical ballet dancer. And so, this particular situation was not turning out good for him, as Capone was quite intent on using his face as a punching bag.

Rick squealed and ducked, narrowly avoiding getting his nose broken. "A little help here, Jake!" he yelled, sprinting across the alley before his opponent could get another swing at him.

Jake looked from side to side, person to person frantically."Whaddya want me to do?"

"Stay outta this, if ya know what's good for ya!" Rick's assailant shouted, roughly. What Officer Dawson could see of his face was dark and angry, the shadows offering scant images. Passing headlights were all that provided light, and they weren't the most plentiful commodity. Not that Jake would really have time to notice anything, though; he was too busy trying to rally his brain cells together, for one cause or another, and they were being quite the little pack of liberals and conservatives over it.

With a final, unhappy grimace and a muttered "Help me", he sprinted straight for the guy, aimed a right hook, and prayed.

* * *

You must remember alleys are not very large places; Rick barely had time to skitter away from Capone before being set upon again, so this whole scramble was happening in a very small place very quickly. In later retells of this story, Capone would describe the alley as even smaller and greatly embellish how dark it had been, also adding in how bad his back had been feeling that day and how disadvantageous he was due to the situation.

Because there was no way in heck a fully functioning, right-minded Al Capone could have been sacked by two ignoramus saps with a vendetta against him for abusing the entertainment industry.

But that was exactly what had happened, and was exactly why he found himself slammed back against a wall, pinned back like a lab specimen with a jaw throbbing like crazy.

He jerked forward strongly, but the blond one held him back. Even if the scrawny thing did nearly fall over from doing so.

His little Hispanic friend came sauntering over, puffed up like a rooster despite the fact that he still hadn't stopped panting. "Well, well, well, look what we got here. The cops done caught the robber."

Capone let out a 'tch', curling his lip. "Ya ain't no friggin' bull." he growled, "Cops wouldn't hire dolts like ya." He knew this to be untrue, though, and was saying it mostly for his own benefit. Cops would hire anybody.

Rick was livid. "Like heck we ain't!"

"Banana oil!" Capone drawled, jerking his shoulders aggressively.

"Ohhh, you want proof, then, do ya, _hombre_?" He began to violently rifle though his pockets, obviously in search of some elusive item. This gave Jake time to reflect on what a weird euphemism banana oil was.

After several awkward moments and two Capone shoulder-jerks, Rick was finally victorious in his endeavor. He pulled out a shining metallic police badge and proceeded to shove it all of two inches in front of Capone's face.

The man in gray pulled a face. "That's your badges now?"

Rick waggled it in his face again. "You bet it is!" He was too intent on his justice-aided victory to pay close attention to his captee's patterns of speech.

Jake was not, however. The guy was using some of the weirdest slang he had ever heard, and now this. "What do you mean 'now'? You've seen them before?"

Rick glanced at him then, averting his eyes and actually _turning his head,_ so confident he was in Capone not trying to get away (or so inexperienced he didn't know better).

The gangster could scarcely believe his luck, and set to formulating a plan, a very good plan, and finished in about 2.3 seconds, restraining himself from smirking evilly.

"What does it matter if he's seen 'em before? We've got him on theft and that's enough!"

"Theft of what? You still don't know if he paid for the movie or not, because the first thing you did upon seeing him was yell an explicative at him! Not exactly stellar police work there!"

"What is it with you? You're the one who saw him sneak in in the first place! Don't blame this on me."

"You know that's not what I meant, Rick."

Rick did not care what he meant one way or another, and was beginning another mini-rant.

Jake heard someone sigh irritably and felt a slight tug on his arm. At first he tensed slightly, fearing the man would try to run again. He wasn't going anywhere, though; just leaning back against the wall, closing his eyes, probably trying to imagine himself away from here. Knowing how Rick could yammer on, he couldn't blame the guy.

He was pretty sure what he and Rick- mostly Rick- were doing classified under 'abuse of power' somewhere.

Really, they had no reason to call this guy a criminal, though his face did look oddly familiar- not strikingly so, however. He had probably seen the guy in a store before or something- they did live in the same city.

But New York was much bigger than Jake was giving it credit for, and he had probably never seen this particular face outside of a history book. Not that someone like Jake would have paid attention to a history book.

He heard a slight scuffle and attributed it to the movie hopper readjusting his position on the wall, ran over his previous (slightly guilty) thoughts again, and decided to do nothing,

Big mistake.

The next thing he knew he was bent over, coughing like crazy and trying to resume breathing. His throat burned savagely where it had been hit- hit?-violently.

He thought he heard somebody shout and tried to raise his head, but the motion only served to worsen his coughing. He heard feet slamming rapidly onto concrete and his mind finally decided to work again.

_Oh, crap, what just happened?_

* * *

_Damn, I hate running, _Capone thought as he burst out of the alley and out onto the street. It was completely unlike him, not in his nature, but cops were cops. Even if they were incompetent morons. Not that he was scared of those two, per say, but he was scared of being caught outside in daylight. Being bored was better than being dead.

He reached a street corner and looked around wildly, eyes flicking back and forth, reading street signs, realizing he had no idea where he was.

"_Shit._" He hissed emphatically, pacing. _I gotta find a way outta here..._

Capone kept searching, motions predatory, probably worrying some passerby, until a throbbing buzz reached his ears. His head snapped around, finding the source of it in an open vehicle that abruptly quit humming. The rider dismounted it and began removing his helmet, adjusting a few things on the dash.

He recognized the basic form as that of a motorcycle, but lower, stunted. At any rate, it was a form of transportation, and Capone had already taken possession of it in his mind.

He crossed the street quickly, taking in the bike-thing's owner. _Brunette. Leather. 6', maybe 250. Not a problem._

"'Ey, you, off." he demanded, snapping his fingers.

The biker was not impressed. This was New York, after all. "Or what?"

Capone gave him a death-glare for a few moments before glancing over his shoulder. He heard shouts and footfalls, both growing closer every second.

He turned back around, facing the taller-than-himself biker again. "Like I said, off, _now. _Or you're gettin' it." he growled, thick brows accentuating the glare in his eyes.

The other man snorted. This little twerp was beginning to get on his nerves. "Or. What." he repeated, enunciating each word to accentuate his supposed superiority. You had to feel sorry for the poor uninformed thing.

Capone, meanwhile, was paying far more attention to the two policemen that had just rounded the corner than he was the idiot insulting him. He did get the gist of what the man had said, though, and did not like it. "Or _this!" _he yelled, kicking the man squarely in the gut and hopping onto the moped.

Rick and Jake noticed this and sped up, the volume of their yells increasing. Some bystanders had begun to take notice of what they were saying, and were approaching Capone much faster than he would have liked.

"How the hell do I work this..." he hissed to himself, his mind hyperventilating on adrenaline. After running his eyes over the controls what felt like a hundred times, all the while knowing the law was less than 50 feet away from grabbing him, he found the ignition and twisted the silver key viciously. The engine sputtered, coughed, then mercifully leveled out. Capone glanced back again, decided he should have stolen a car, and slammed a foot onto the gas.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Ahhh, I took forever on this, didn't I? I would apologize but that goes without saying, I know how much torture it is waiting for a story to get updated. But anyways, I had fun with this, just took a step back and looked at it, read some about good ol' Al to get me back in the mood. I think this is an improvement over last chapter, too. Agreed?

Reviews are always greatly appreciated, and while I will update without them, there's no way in heck they make me write slower!


	7. Crash It Like You Stole It

Al Capone had, over the course of his life, driven many different vehicles. It had started with a newly minted Ford he and some boyhood friends had discovered on the outskirts of the city and subsequently taken on a joyride- Capone's idea, of course. He retained the American love of the automobile all of his days, and even though his rides changed over time, his methods of acquiring them differed only in their level of illegality- the term 'ride it like you stole it' was probably coined with him in mind. His most recent catch was no exception.

And if he had though the rush of air that had first breezed past him outside the Museum was a welcome return to life, then by comparison the face-slapping current he was blasting through now was a near-epiphany. The machine thrummed joyously underneath him, its engine sending a reverberating roar through his entire being, a wonderful thing that expressed itself as a wide and wild grin plastered onto his face. A grin that stayed on his face all of about one glorious minute, until he had the unfortunate luck to glance away from the road at the exact moment a rather low roadsign came into the perfect position for smacking him in the face and off the bike.

* * *

Behind him a good mile by now, Rick and Jake stood staring in a relatively useless fashion at the road before them. Infuriated a good deal more than his friend, Rick eventually took it upon himself to snatch his baseball cap off and fume, screeching insults and reproaches in English, Spanish, and the variety of pidgins most New Yorkers are students of.

Jake, who wasn't anywhere near Rick's level of frustration and saw that this was quite a useless exercise, sought to silence the guy's ever-loving trap. "Rick. Dude. Chill out."

All he succeeded in was getting Rick even more steamed, if that were possible. "Chill out? _Chill out? _Why in the name of Quentin Tarantino should I _chill out? _I was just _assaulted _by a_ dangerous criminal! _ME! A cop! That's a federal offense! The whole squad should be chasing after that punk _right now!"_

"I really don't think the office would be willing to chase down somebody on our account. Remember what happened that time Viktor Fillmore stole your girlfriend and we told the brass he was conspiring to blow up the Hudson Bridge? Not pretty."

"Stealing the only girl I ever managed to hook up with _was _a federal offense! It's in the books. I petitioned on the Senate floor for the law to pass _and it did." _

"You've never been out of New York, Rick."

"You don't know that!"

"Actually, I do. We met in pre-K, remember?"

Rick pointed sternly at him. "You are trying to get my mind off of that _criminal _that just _assaulted me. _It ain't gonna work. He threw the first punch. He's going behind cold steel bars or my name isn't Richard Gutierrez _the Second_!" he turned his face back to the road. "YOU HEAR THAT, PUNK?"

Jake glanced down at the finger three inches away from his nose and shoved it aside. "Rick. Dude." he repeated, "This isn't helping anything."

His friend ignored him and returned to yelling derogative terms at Capone's family tree. Jake gave up for the time being.

* * *

When Capone came to, he knew one thing and one thing only.

His head hurt.

_Bad._

In fact, his head hurt _really _bad, even worse than the hangover he had gotten in SoHo back in '22 on New Year's. For several minutes most of his attention was diverted to the throbbing in the center of his forehead and evaluating it against the various hangovers he had gotten, chronologically by year, ignoring the fact that this particular headache wasn't a hangover or even remotely related to alcohol.

As the rest of his senses faded in, he became aware of a low puttering, which he took to be the still-running engine of the moped, a rather odd hissing noise accompanied by a suspicious acrid smell, and over that a piercing, constant wailing that sounded alarmingly familiar... alarmingly... why that adv- _alarm! _He cursed and sat up abruptly, forcing his eyes open and staring at the broken glass of the storefront his hijacked ride had just bursted through in an action-flick like manner.

Having a quick mind when it came to matters of law-breaking and general crime, Capone spent all of three seconds gaping at the scene and whirring through possible reactions. Coming to a conclusion, he jumped up- _"Achh! Backache!"_- or at least tried to, and limp-jogged into a convenient nearby alleyway. Once out of the immediate crime scene, he allowed his rattled mind to follow a more coherent line of thought, which included many unprintable explicatives concerning headaches. And the realization that he had no idea where he was.

More explicatives followed.

* * *

It had taken Capone at least seven geological epochs of walking block after endless block, but he finally managed to find a pay phone moored at the edge of a lonely and decrepit gas station. It was his intention to call Daley, or at least a cab, and return to some part of this blasted city he actually knew about. Bluffing about your knowledge of city streets and then getting lost in them is not a smart thing to do, as he had learned.

Capone scowled at the machine and gave it a once-over. There had been thousands of them in NYC even back in the 20's, and in his youth he had lost many hard-earned coins to the out-of-service ones people kept around to make easy money. This one appeared to be working, though, as it was lit up bright enough to make his eyes smart. He began to look for change on the surrounding ground, had no luck, and so began to rife through his borrowed clothing.

His hand paused over the $20 momentarily, but then moved on- the machine didn't seem to take bills, and he wasn't about to give it up after the crap he had gone through to keep it.

That, and there was no way in heck he was dropping that much money into a pay phone.

He spent a good amount of time exploring each and every corner of each and every pocket of the jeans with increasing desperation. Luck was smiling on him for once that night, though, as he found a lightly tarnished New Hampshire state quarter hiding in the last pocket he searched.

Capone cackled in triumph and shoved the coin into the machine, then picked up the phone and pressed it to his extremely smug face.

And waited.

And waited.

He frowned and looked a bit closer at the directions.

_Please deposit a minimum of 50 cents to begin a call._

The proprietors of a certain New York city pay phone would later find its receiver ripped violently away from the base and lying thirty yards away in a storm gutter, as if someone had thrown it there in a fit of extreme anger.

* * *

It had been upwards of half an hour, most of which Jake had spent texting, but Rick finally seemed to have exhausted his supply of insults. Jake asked him as much.

Rick responded with a growl and crossed his arms. His throat was starting to hurt.

"You finally chilled out?"

"Yes, since revenge is a dish best served cold."

"Oh, yes, Rick, wonderful, now please tell me how in the heck are you going to take revenge _on a guy you know nothing about?"_

As it turned out, Rick did know something about him. It was the result of having to accompany his little sister on a tour of the MNH. He had sleep-walked through most of it, of course, but recalled just enough to make him suspicious. "I've seen him before. I remembered where. Museum of Natural History. He plays their Al Capone. Looks like he walked out of _Casablanca_. That's why he was made up all black and white."

"So _that's _why he looked weird. Hunh. I thought I might have gone colorblind there for a few minutes. Seeing movies late at night will do that to you."

"Stop getting off the subject, Jake!"

"That isn't off the subject!" he said indignantly. "I was seriously worried I might have had colorblindness, especially when you didn't say anything to the guy about being gray!"

"That's because there were more important issues at stake. He _assaulted _me, remember?"

"Well, you certainly aren't letting me forget it."

"Whatever. I'm going to give that guy a piece of my mind ASAP!"

It would appear Rick was in the mood for more cat-screeching and subsequent getting his butt handed to him on a plate.

"In his own territory? Bad idea. Guy probably has friends there."

"Friends schmends. You make sound like he's got a mafia going in a public museum."

"Hey, you never know."

* * *

It took Capone a little while- okay, a _long _while- to bring himself down to a manageable level of calm and fully decimate the pay phone to his liking. When he was finished, he grabbed the ragged phone book, ripped out the pages he needed, turned to leave, and smacked head-on into someone for the second time that evening.

(His poor head really was taking a beating, if you think about it, what with the moped wrecks and the bumping into things and so forth. I wouldn't worry if I were you, though. It's doubtful anything short of a rocket launcher could harm something as thick as Al Capone's skull.)

At any rate, back to our loveable protagonist, who had recovered from his- what, fifth accident tonight?- by now, albeit with the aid of numerous words his mother would have slapped him for using, and turned to apologize for the collsion and subsequent cursing to whoever it was.

He proceeded to choke on his own spit.

It was the floozie from earlier, and she was grinning past the bruise on her nose like she had just met her soul mate.

* * *

**Author's Note**: As a general announcement, I really don't mean to offend anybody with the curse words. They're just what I think Capone would say given the situations and his character. I haven't had any complaints or anything but I wanted to make a point of mentioning that for any future readers.


End file.
